Broken yet complete

The pile of dust on the Irish carpet, I thought

of love to be that dust,

Like a unwanted desire to be wanted,

As if it’s all about surrendering your worth

to a pedlar or

letting a clown paint your face and mock at it

inartistically.

It was a tip- tap game, with millions of buffaloes

on a cliff, stampeding off,

or an exam, as essential as your life but

you are destined to fall, and poorly, even from a

table as high as a five year old – fall.

I hate sun and it lives on my head

I hate rains and they believe I am their partner.

This is what, the whole scheme was written for,

by a wise, wise** shrewd old man,

to break the youthful heart

into the whims of a witch, delicately savouring its

pieces,

feeding on its fleshly life.